


A Film a Day Keeps the Insanity Away

by ronans



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Depression, Drug Use, M/M, Movie References, One Night Stands, One Shot, Promiscuity, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2459246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronans/pseuds/ronans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're on your own and every day is the same until it gets worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Film a Day Keeps the Insanity Away

**Author's Note:**

> I love films. Like, a lot. And I like writing people who are not feeling great... so... here! It's kinda weird but I dunno.  
> 

 

'Oh my fucking  _god_ , Ian.'  

Ian looks up at the ceiling and drums his fingers against his stomach absently. He can't remember the guy's name but is pretty sure it started with an F... Fred, maybe? 

'Jesus... Wow.' 

 _Yeah,_ _okay_. Ian rolls over and fluidly gets up off the bed. The next movements are mechanical and he'd done them a thousand times before. 

Fred is still lying facedown on the mattress, hands fisted in the tacky silver covers and brown hair in a wrecked halo on the pillow. His breathing's harsh. Ian rolls his eyes and pats his wrinkled t-shirt down, moving onto doing up his belt buckle. 

'Hey, what? Where're you going?' Fred appears to have recovered enough to lift his head and watch as Ian slips his leather jacket back on. 

'Home, I guess.'  _And where was that again?_  

The other man doesn't even try to hide his disappointment. He taps his fingers against the sheets but although it's a pretty inviting gesture, Ian isn't convinced. He smiles tightly, no emotion. 

'Later, Fred.' 

'It's James,' he hears the warm body groan, slamming his face back into the pillow. Okay, Ian had been way off. He didn't care. Ian barely keeps from flipping the guy off as he traipses out of the bedroom and into the hallway. The rooms are nice, well furnished, and a far cry from what Ian's making his way back to. 

On the stairs down to the lobby - he avoids the elevator completely - he sees a woman carrying grocery bags. Or maybe it's her child, his vision's too blurry, he can't be bothered to care. 

He looks both ways before crossing the street after he's exited the apartment block. Contrary to popular belief, he doesn't actually want to get himself killed. 

It's so cold out, a dusting of snow on every surface. He's grown up with it and maybe that's why he barely feels it. That's what he tells himself.  _He has grown up with it therefore he's immune to it_. 

His studio is lonely. There's a deafening absence of noise and the bustle that came with having five siblings. He'd become numb to it, though, used to it. 

He sits down heavily on his couch as the opening scene to  _Seven Psychopaths_  rolls on his shitty little TV and lights a cigarette. The smoke wafts past his eyes, they're twinkling as he watches the screen. He lets the cigarette dangle from his lips, not even inhaling. 

None of the dialogue goes in, he just allows his vision to focus whenever there's blood on the screen, allows his ears to tune in whenever a gunshot sounds. This is his life; it's drifting when he's conscious and trying not to stay in bed for days when he's not. 

* 

Another sleepless night, another drugged up guy from the club. He'd started calling all of them Fred; it made it easier to deal with if it just seemed like he was bedding one faceless guy each night. Plus, it made him laugh. 

Thrusting, biting, sighing. Clothes on, shoes on, out the door. 

'Later, Fred.' 

'My name's Mickey, fuckhead.' 

Ian shrugs and leaves. 

Another night, more drugs, racing head, no sleep. 

'Later, Fred.' 

That guy just laughs. 

Again, over and over, waiting for the crash. He can feel it coming. 

'Go home, Ian,' Roger sighs. It was probably the bruises under his eyes. Maybe the purpling hickeys decorating his neck.  

'Nah.' 

' _Yes_. You look like shit, get some sleep.' 

Ian can't even find it in himself to be offended. He bites his lip and scratches at his head tiredly, mussing up the dark orange strands. 

'You need me to call someone...?' Roger asks. Was that concern in his voice? 

'Nah,' Ian repeats. 

 _Repeat, repeat, repeat._  

'Ian.' 

'What?!' 

Roger flinches at his yell and lets out a long exhale. 'Seriously, you gonna be okay?' 

 _No._  'I'm fucking fine. Jesus.' _Fuck you, Roger._

He hadn't even registered that he'd listened to the bouncer, but finds himself stepping off the train and slowly trudging through the snow to his apartment. 

As soon as he's inside, he puts  _High Fidelity_ into his beaten up DVD player _._  

He passes out somewhere through the second break-up. 

Work, kisses, filthy bathroom stalls.  _Home_. 

 _One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest._  

Ian smiles, tears streaming down his cheeks as McMurphy strangles Nurse Ratched. He taps his cigarette and glances at the ash falling on the floorboards. 

The watch on his wrist doesn't work but he still checks it. According to his watch, he's always late for work. 

Hips swaying, bodies gyrating, music, music, music, dancing.  _Home._  

In goes  _Fight Club._  

He thinks of his brother and how he'd occasionally come home with a black eye and busted lip. He replaces the actors with his memory, the sweaty South Side bodies pummelling each other, a cacophony of screams. His head hits the back of the couch. 

 _'Where'd you go, psycho boy?'_  

The smile splits his face in two. He covers his face with his hands and rubs until he's sure the skin's turned red. 

' **SORT YOUR SHIT OUT!** ' 

Lip's voice, echoing in his brain. 

'Leave me alone!' Ian shouts. He can hear the sound of his neighbour dropping a plate, bowl, vase, something. The walls are paper thin. 

* 

One dream he has involves him smoking outside the White Swallow. There's a short man in front of him with blonde hair and caramel skin and he has his eyebrows raised. He's pinching a little bag of white powder between his thumb and forefinger, waving it in front of Ian's face. 

He thinks it's a dream. It  _feels_  like a dream when he puts the cigarette out on his palm and doesn't flinch. 

He wakes up with a rolled up bill in his nose, halfway through his second line of coke, brain buzzing. The guy's standing next to him, laughing, telling him he's  _fucking crazy_. Ian just grins and slams his head back against the wall of the toilet stall. 

* 

The day he doesn't get out of bed he knows he's  _crashed_. He's lying in his dirty sheets not sleeping, mind dull. There's one window and it's not very big. When he looks out of it he can see the overcast sky, clouds ready to burst with tears-  _rain_. 

All the noise that reaches his ears feels like it's travelling through water. Faintly, he can hear the garble of the people next door arguing. He doesn't know how long he's been lying down. 

Weeks. That's what it feels like. It's like  _weeks_ of being numb, not eating, scattered thoughts and weak aches. It could well have been that long. He doesn't have a phone, has probably been fired. He wants to care but  _can't_. 

Someone's banging on his front door and he doesn't know how long it's been going on for because it's only just registered.  _Get up get up get up get up make it stop_. Hopefully they'll just give up. 

They don't. Obviously. 

A vaguely familiar face ends up mere inches from his own. Ian can't remember how it got there, what happened in the time between him realising someone was tearing the door down to having them inside the apartment. 

For a moment, Ian thinks he's a mind reader because he can pick up on words but the guy’s mouth isn't moving. Then everything syncs up and he's glassily studying his lips. 

' _I work at the club.'_ His voice is so muffled and Ian can't deal with processing his vivid eyes and urgent tone at the same time. He blinks. He turns over. It's the most movement he's managed in... he doesn't know how long. 

' _I work at the club! Fuck, don't you remember me_?' Ian doesn't answer. ' _Christ, the fuck you been takin', huh?_ ' 

Ian chuckles and the sound surprises him.  

'This ain't fucking funny, alright? You can't just take off like that.' His voice is clearer now and Ian likes it. 

'I didn't take off,' he replies, finally, voice cracking and gravelly.  

'What time are you referring to,' the guy he recognises but just can't place mutters under his breath. Maybe he doesn't want Ian to hear, but after being deprived of sound for so long, Ian's ears are sharp. 

'I don't know what... you mean,' Ian wheezes out tiredly. He feels so fucking  _weak_. 

The dark haired man lets out a disbelieving laugh. It's more like a bark than anything. 'Way to make a guy feel good. Fuck.' 

' _Fred_ ,' he breathes out with a tiny giggle. This communication is really making him want to just disappear, fall back into the hole he'd been in only minutes before. 

' _Mickey_.' 

"Mickey" speaks like Ian's back in kindergarten and can't string sentences together. Ian's still staring at the wall, away from Mickey, eyeing a stain on the wall. 

'Yo, you fucking reek, man, take a damn shower.' 

 _I can't get up_. 

'You hearin' me?' 

 _I can't get up._  

'Alright, fine, whatever, I'll fuck off then. Roger tried to cover for your pathetic ass but I don't think Jones'll listen to him once I go tell him you've been slee-' 

'Don't go,' Ian croaks, fisting the covers tightly and squeezing his eyes shut. Mickey's not friendly. Mickey's not nice. He doesn't want Mickey to go. 'Put on a movie.' His voice is barely above a whisper and it's taken him  _so much energy_  to even make the suggestion. Mickey doesn't reply so he thinks he's probably pretty shocked. 

Ian picks up the scratch of nails on skin. Probably a nervous action.  

'Alright fine, you lie there like a fuckin' corpse and I'll just kick back then, yeah? Sounds wonderful.' 

Mickey may have been lacing sarcasm through every word but Ian picks up on the sound of him moving over to the ripped up sofa and guesses he's scanning through Ian's collection. 

He recognises the opening sequence from his space on the bed. It's  _American Psycho_. He finds it nice, having another person near him, he's starting to feel a little better, black clouds receding slightly. 

Eventually he gets up, a monumental task, and slumps down next to Mickey who wrinkles his nose but doesn’t say anything. The screams, the chainsaw noises, Mickey's breathing, Mickey's fingers tapping against his thigh. 

'I'm sorry.' 

Mickey's eyebrows draw together and he looks over at Ian. 'What for?' 

He can't answer, just smiles sadly and turns his attention to the screen. Mickey chews on his bottom lip like he wants to say something. 

'So... you, uh... you remember?' 

 _Thrusting, biting, sighing. Clothes on, shoes on, out the door._  

Ian inclines his head slightly, neck aching with the action. Mickey nods back at him and, without making eye contact, picks at his lip. 

'You didn't tell anyone, right?' 

Stomach sinking, Ian shakes his head. 'Who do I have to tell?' That's a pretty sad bit of reality. He hasn't seen his siblings in months. 

'Huh,' Mickey huffs out. His expression suggests that now he's sat down, he doesn't know how to excuse himself. 

'You work... at a gay club?' Ian forces out, hugging his midsection, tank top scrunched up under his arms. 

Mickey frowns deeply and ignores Ian. Ian flicks his eyes over Mickey's face, taking in everything. He can't believe he was  _so fucked up_  that he hadn't taken the time to  _really_  look at Mickey before. 

'Watch the fucking movie,' Mickey eventually grunts out.  

Ian does as he's told and watches it until the end. 

'I'm sorry.' 

Mickey scowls again in confusion. Ian doesn't blame him, but he's feeling this overwhelming sense of pain and guilt now that he's resurfaced and isn't on anything to distract him. But the important thing is, Mickey doesn't leave. 


End file.
